


The Devil May Care

by HoldHerTightAndSayHerName



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Caring Lucifer, Chloe has the migraine of the century and Lucifer freaks out, F/M, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Lucifer (TV) Season/Series 03, Lucifer Feels, Minor Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, POV Chloe Decker, POV Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Pre-Lucifer (TV) Season/Series 04, Sick Chloe Decker, TW: Vomiting, Whump, amow march madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName/pseuds/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName
Summary: When Chloe gets sick and needs help, Trixie knows better than to call Pierce.“Oh, God.”“Well, for once, I have to agree with you, Detective,” the voice replies, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. “Splitting headaches are definitely His field of expertise.”The auras of light flash and dance inside her retina, coalescing into a mosaic pattern of dark spots, and her skull cracks open.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 29
Kudos: 183





	The Devil May Care

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I'm back with another one-shot, my first submission for @amonthofwhump's March Madness challenge. It's not _too_ whumpy, more... whumpy-fluffy? whumfy? Is that a thing? But anyway, do check the tags just in case.  
> I hope you'll enjoy reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. :)
> 
> *My eternal gratitude to @wickedgoodbooks for helping me improve a messy and very poorly edited draft! <3

Under the red moonflower lights, countless bodies dance across the room in step with the music. Lucifer watches, unmoving, enveloped in pale billows of smoke. The rising bass reverberates through the floor, through the seat, and into his chest, matching the beat of his immortal heart. When the lights shift in glorious patterns, he registers a softer vibration coming from inside his jacket. Unhurriedly, he reaches for his phone and smiles at the name displayed on the screen.

“Evening, Detective!” Gracefully, he stands up from the couch and moves towards the bar, pressing the device against his ear. “I’m afraid my set is about to start — Jeff Buckley special tonight. It’s a shame you couldn’t make it. What do you think I should open with — _Mojo Pin_ _?_ I was going to go for _Lilac Wine_ , but...”

He pauses, noticing the complete silence at the end of the line.

“Hello? Detective?”

“Lucifer?”

The voice against his ear is small, even for a fun-sized human.

“Urchin?” Lucifer’s eyebrows draw together, and his hand holding the tumbler pauses mid-air. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling for a bedtime story.”

“N-no.”

The child makes a suspicious sniffling sound, and he fights the urge to wipe imaginary snot off his sleeve.

“Oh, dear. Let me guess — it’s that nose-picking, bogey-eating wanker named _Jake,_ ” he snorts, gulping his last sip of whiskey. “I told you the boy was nothing but trouble.”

“I told you, we’re just _friends_ _!_ ”

“Hmm. Of course that’s what they all say.” Turning around, he silently waves over a staff member to uncork a bottle of champagne. “Well then, to what do I owe the pleasure, Offspring? You’re not in trouble, are you? As I said, I’ve got to—”

“Mommy needs help.”

Time slows and freezes, and the music fades in the background.

“ _My_ help?”

“Well, Dad’s working and you’re a grownup, right? Unless you want me to call that Pierce guy instead...?”

“Rhetorical question.” Lucifer slowly puts down his glass on the bar. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” the voice complains, “we were making dinner, and then she said her head hurt, and then she started talking all funny, like Nana last Christmas, only _weirder_ , so I thought it was a joke, but then—”

“Bloody h—Urchin?” Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath, “I know your cognitive skills are still somewhat lacking, but time is of the essence. Just tell me: _where_ is your mother?”

“In the bathroom,” the child goes on. “And I think she’s feeling yucky, like when I had too much cake at Katie’s birthday and I was sick all over the—”

_The Detective’s blood, splattering from her wound._

_The Detective’s face, in that hospital bed._

_The Detective, so horrifyingly fragile._

When Lucifer’s brain catches up, he’s already halfway up the stairs.

“Alright, I think I got the picture, child.” Why, _why_ is that lift so bloody slow? “Maybe you could unlock the front door for me. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

“...okay.”

A minute later, he’s standing on the balcony with a pounding heart. His wings unfurl, and he shoots into the night sky.

* * *

“Lucifer!”

The child opens the door and throws herself at him, clinging like an overeager barnacle. He pats her head awkwardly with one hand and tries to dislodge her with the other, throwing an anxious look around the place, still hoping to see the Detective come down the stairs, smiling with unassuming grace. But she is nowhere to be seen. Lucifer frowns and looks down, becoming suddenly aware of a suspicious smell emanating from the kitchen.

“Is something burning?”

Thankfully, the child pulls away and answers his question with a shrug.

“We were making mac and cheese.”

“Right. I know your mother’s cooking skills leave a great deal to be desired, but…” Growing more concerned by the minute, he strides into the kitchen, opens the oven, and fishes out the half-melted remains of... 

“Is that a timer?”

He drops the charred object into the sink and cracks a window open, running possible scenarios through his mind. Whatever happened, the Detective appears to be badly incapacitated. What is the source of her impediment, this time? Some kind of toxic agent? Drugs? Another poison? The tension between his shoulder blades increases; and he casts another look at the stairs.

First, the child. The Detective wouldn’t want her to worry.

“Offspring?” He slams the door shut and turns off the oven. “I’ll take care of your mother. Why don’t you turn on the telly and find something to watch?”

“Really?” the little voice answers from the living room. “But Mommy says I’m not allowed to watch more than—”

He stops at the doorstep and waves an imperious hand.

“You said I qualify as a grown-up, yes?”

The child nods energetically. “My third favourite one.”

“Well then, knock yourself out. You’ve got the Devil’s blessing, as it were.”

Problem solved. Now, on to the more pressing matter.

Without a second glance, he hurries up the stairs, refusing to acknowledge the fear coiling in his belly that compels him to take the last steps two by two. The bathroom door is unlocked. Stopping to listen for noises above the drumming of his heartbeat, he reminds himself to knock.

“Detective?”

A weak groan answers him, making his stomach drop. Swearing under his breath, he pushes the door open and enters the dark bathroom.

* * *

Chloe lifts her head from the toilet bowl and frowns, trying to identify the tall figure leaning over her. He’s not Dan, that much she knows. He does feel like home, though. She knows his smell, knows his name, but the white hot pain blanks it all out.

“Who?” the man growls, and she shivers at the warmth of his touch against her back. “Whoever did this, just tell me their name, and I’ll—”

Her head throbs as the pulsating light spots dance and multiply, leaving long trails behind, like shooting stars in a late summer sky.

“No — this...” Her mind screeches and distorts. “...migraine.”

The hand stills between her shoulder blades.

“But surely, there must be something we can…”

“Already took meds,” she breathes, wiping her mouth. “Need to... ride... it out.”

“...I see.”

The voice mutters something about _humans_ and _feeble,_ and possibly _endangered species_ , but a fresh wave of nausea and pain hits her before she can process the full sentence. She bends over, only managing a single dry heave.

“Oh, God.”

“Well, for once, I have to agree with you, Detective,” the voice replies, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. “Splitting headaches are definitely His field of expertise.”

The auras of light flash and dance inside her retina, coalescing into a mosaic pattern of dark spots, and her skull cracks open. She can’t see. She’s going to pass out, but she doesn’t care. All she wants is to lie down. Just for a moment and... _oh_. Coolness on her forehead.

 _Heaven_.

“Again, not quite,” the voice chuckles, “but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

_Did she say that out loud?_

After a while, the cool hand leave her face, and she can’t stop a small whine from escaping her lips. The shape crouches and firmly gathers her against a warm plane of muscle.

“Put your arms around my neck... Yes, that's it.”

She lets him lift her off the cold tile floor, the gentleness behind his words enveloping her like his embrace.

Once again, she tries desperately to remember the sound of the man’s name. It’s a name made of strength and anger and light, the kind that reveals and burns too bright, the kind that brings clarity and pain in equal measure, meant to be craved and desired and feared. And yet, there’s no fear in her heart when his capable hands lay her on the bed, and wrap the duvet around her.

Tall among the stars blurring her vision, her Lightbringer is keeping watch. With a sigh, she lets her eyes close, her body go soft, deep into the bed. 

“Try to sleep,” the voice says, caressing her hair. “I’ll see to things.”

The searing pain finally begins to lose its grip on her, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache, and the overwhelming feeling of being cared for — of being loved.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Anytime, darling.”

A featherlight kiss brushes her brow — or maybe she imagines it, as sleep finally takes her.


End file.
